Rebuilding
by supersleet
Summary: Aressa's life has a habit of falling apart, leaving her to pick up the pieces. When she gets the chance to start over, she grabs it. However, this new land of opportunity seems to only hold more hardship. Caught in a complicated political web Aressa has a choice to make. Does she make the best of her new life and continue to rebuild, or bring the rest of the world down with her?
1. Chapter 1

The blizzard howled outside, screaming in fury at its inability to penetrate the stone walls. The storm screamed on, but it couldn't dampen the thick tapestries that covered those walls. It couldn't cut the warmth of the fire roaring in the hearth, or chill the warm arms that encircled me, the broad chest and thick body that was my father. We sat on a fluffy rug in front of the fire, a book too heavy for me to lift spread on the ground in front of us. Work-hardened fingers traced along the words he spoke, stopping over some fine scrawl long enough for me to sound out the words, trying to remember all the rules that went with the letters. He would smile, neatly-trimmed beard stretching with his grin.

"That's right, sweet girl. You are so smart. Perhaps you'll be emperor someday," He would say, lifting me off his lap into the air as I squealed.

"Don't give her false hope," My mother said from a thick arm-chair, not looking up from her own book. She was a practical woman, with fine, noble features drawn tightly across her face. She had a cold air about her, but I knew there was a warmth underneath the stony frown. Her black hair cascaded down to her waist, curled in soft waves from the tight knot she wore it in during the day.

But I didn't care about that right now. I didn't care if I was smart, or if I could never be emperor. All that mattered was that father was happy, that the corners of his eyes, deep blue, just like mine, would crinkle in delight. That he would keep smiling at me and teaching me all the things that made him so great. We would sit for hours by the fire, sounding out words and learning what they meant. We would read political memoirs, thick histories, business ledgers, or, my favorite, fantasies. It continued until the tell-tale sound of my mother snapping her book shut, and announcing that it was time for me to sleep.

I would be woken the next morning, usually by my mother or a well-meaning servant. As reluctant as I was to get up, they only had to utter that my father was leaving before I would fly out of bed. If they were lucky, I would throw on the nearest crumpled dress that hadn't made it off the floor the previous night. More often, I would race down the hallways in my nightgown and all my six-year-old glory.

"Papa!" I shrieked as soon as I saw him, immensely relieved that I wasn't too late.

He would pick me up and settle me into the crook of his arm, his tawny moustache and beard parting to reveal straight teeth. "Better late than never," he would say, halting whatever important business he was dealing with the acknowledge me.

"And half-dressed," My mother muttered, slipping shoes onto my feet. "Not too late, Torveld. She caught a cold last time," My mother added sternly.

"Wouldn't want that, now would we? Kiss your mother good-bye, Aressa."

I kissed her on one cheek as he kissed the other. My father then lifted me onto the horse, mounting behind me. We rode a short distance outside the city, to a patch of forest where the trees were full and the grass was soft. The horse grazed patiently as we sat in the shade. I squinted at the paper that my father gave me.

"Six… six hundred and forty four?" I said hesitantly, counting on my fingers to double check.

"Aye, and this?" he said, handing me another receipt.

"Nine hundred and fifty six," I said more confidently.

My father smiled again, and shifted through his ledgers to find another paper to give me. He found one and pulled it out of the leather-bound folder, but his hand froze halfway between us. I began to reach for it, but something about his face made me pause.

"Papa-"

"Aressa," He said, his voice was low, the way he made it when I sometimes got in trouble. I immediately started racking my brain, trying to remember what I did wrong. "I need you to go into the forest. Aressa!" He grabbed my shoulder roughly, pulling my attention back to him. He put a hand against my head, smoothing my hair down. "Sweet girl. Go into the forest, and don't come back, no matter what you hear. Stay very quiet, don't make a sound. Don't come out for anyone but me." He paused, listening. I could hear it now too, hoofbeats. "Go, now. Don't make a sound."

I scrambled to my feet and plunged into the forest. My heart beat filling my ears. I looked over my shoulder, safely hidden in the dappled shadow of a bush. My father's broad back blocked most of my view, but there were now at least three other men in the clearing.

"Gentlemen, can I help you?" My father asked jovially.

"You know what we want, old man." One man threatened. I couldn't see his face.. "Go grab it."

One of the other men moved towards my father's leather-bound ledger, and my father moved to stop him, but he stopped in midair. My heartbeat found itself in my ears again, blocking out any other sound. I was terrified that the men would hear it.

My father staggered towards a tree. He looked into the bush through which I had disappeared, then began searching the woods. A red stain spreading across his fine yellow cloak. He fell to his knees before his eyes met mine. They looked wrong. Wide-open, slightly glazed, and no crinkles surrounded them. The man came around, and pulled the dagger from his chest. The red began seeping further, covering his chest.

Someone started screaming as I clawed my way out of the forest. Branches tugged at my dress and scratched my face, as if trying to hold me back. I pushed through anyways, ignorant of the long strands of black hair that the underbrush pulled from my head. I fell at father's body, clawing my way through the red-stained grass. I had just reached him when someone pulled my roughly up by my hair.

I fought back, clawing at the hand and arm that held me, kicking in every possible direction. The screaming continued. I could tell that the men were saying something to each other, but I couldn't understand any of it. The man who stabbed my father came forward, the knife in his hand was still red. I stared at it. The screaming got louder.

I'm still not sure when the guards arrived. I was dropped as the knife angled against my neck. Flashes of swords and armor quickly apprehended two of the men, another guard chased the third as he ran into the forest. I clawed my way back to my father, my hands turning red as I tried to press the wound shut. A guard knelt in front of me, trying to get my attention. The screaming had stopped, my throat was sore. I continued sobbing.

I don't know how the guards got me home. I didn't tell them anything. I might have, if I had been able to speak through the heaving sobs, my tears diluting the blood on my hands until it ran down my arms in pale, pinkish streaks.

But, I got home eventually. My mother hadn't changed from her day gown into her evening robe. Her brow was creased in stress. She automatically took me from the guards, not asking any questions as I buried my wet face into her neck. She finished her business with the guards. She looked over my father's accounts. She wrote all the appropriate letters to all the appropriate people. All with me balanced on her hip.

She brought me to my room and washed the blood from my hands and the tears from my face. She changed me into a sleeping gown, and smoothed the hair from my face, covering me in a thick down blanket. She kissed my forehead, blew out the candle, and left.

The tears stopped flowing as soon as the light disappeared. I stayed awake, staring up at a face in the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

My mother turned cold after that. Not cold like people thought she was in the first place, but actually cold. The night she washed his blood from my hands was the last time she touched me. Her hair stayed pinned in a tight knot against her head. I never saw her lounging in the arm chair again.

Father's best friend waited a respectful two months after the mourning period was over to propose to my mother. He was some sort of general during the great war, now a politician. He tried at first to play with me, to help me assimilate into this new place. He would set up meetings with other children of wealthy families. Some of those went well, but I was still too small and bitter to try and be happy, so he quickly gave up.

I blamed myself for all of it. I somehow started the argument between my parents. I somehow made the men kill papa. I made my mother re-marry. I made everyone move from my home, the manor I loved, to some house in the Imperial city. I got all the servants fired.

"Just make the best out of it"

Day in and day out.

"Just make the best out of it"

I was eight. How was I supposed to make the best out of anything, when no one was willing to help me, to talk to me?

 _That's because you pushed them all away._ No. No, they didn't try hard enough. They should care about me. _Your fault, your fault, your fault._

The internal argument was the only thing that filled up the silence. I tried to act out, to get attention, a scolding, a spanking, _anything._ I began to steal, mother's jewels, step-father's letters. I melted into shadows easily, I was never caught. That was, until I made the mistake of wandering into the kitchen.

I remember reaching for a knife, a big knife, when a hand, thin but strong, the loveliest shade of green-brown closed around my wrist. I looked up into big, green-gold eyes.

"And what are you planning to do with that?"

Her hair was tawny-red. Sharp cheekbones, a prominent brow, thin lips, the opposite of what I had been taught was beautiful. But to me, it was like staring at a god.

"Are you going to answer?" She asked sternly. She still hadn't released my wrist.

I looked up at her, blankly, before I felt the tears start to well in my eyes. I cried for a month after father died, but not since them. Now it was all coming out.

"Gods and Daedra" The bosmer woman said, releasing me. "Come on now, let's go find your mother."

At that point I wailed, clinging to her skirt, screaming incoherently. I didn't want mother. I wanted _her._

She looked down at me, thin lips pressed into a frown. "You're too old to throw a tantrum," Her fists rested on her thin hips. "Do you want to stay here?"

I stopped screaming and nodded.

"Fine. But make yourself useful" She gave me a knife, much smaller than the one I originally wanted, and pointed at the corner. "Go peel potatoes- oh, and- Faenthil!" A boy appeared, a few years older than me, dressed in the same drab servant's clothes. He had the same tawny hair and green-gold eyes. "Make sure she doesn't hurt herself" she said with a sigh, turning away.

The boy sneered at me. I followed him to the corner she had indicated and took the potato he handed me, carving chunks out of it.

"Not like that" The boy said, taking both the potato and the knife, trying to show me to cut off only the skin. But my eyes were on the woman. It was mesmerizing to watch her move around the kitchen, cutting things up, throwing them into pots, lighting fires with her fingers.

"Like this?" I asked the fifth time that week, holding a basket of potatoes up for her inspection. Aelwyn was the bosmer woman's name. Faenthil was her son, four years older than me.

She picked one up, nodding in approval as she turned it around in her head. "That'll do"

I beamed, watching as she added them to a pot of boiling water.

"You grin like a cat" Aelwyn said, touching my nose.

"It's creepy." Faenthil mumbled.

I stuck my tongue out at him, running as soon I saw him start to move. He was faster than me. He caught me, like he always did. His mother was my only saving grace.

Only, it was _my_ mother who was towering over us this time.

Faenthil scrambled off of me, and I stood too. I could feel Aelwyn rise slowly behind us. She felt like a bear behind me, ready to pounce.

"Your father would have you eat dinner with your _family_ tonight" She said slowly, drawing out every syllable.

"He's not my father," I mumbled, dusting my dress off. But I followed her out, giving Faenthil and Aelwyn a remorseful gaze over my shoulder.

My not-father was already seated at the head of the table. He smiled as we entered, standing quickly to pull out the chair for my mother.

"Your mother tells me that you've been spending a lot of time in the kitchen" Patilinus said. Patilinus. Pat, like the sound bread made when Aelwyn tossed it, kneading it in the air. Only less pleasant.

My mother cleared her throat, I looked up long enough to see her piercing gaze, then resumed staring at my plate. "I peeled the potatoes" I blurted.

He skewered one on his fork, looking it over. "And a fine job you did" He almost sounded like my father- well, maybe not _my_ father, but _a_ father. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather learn to sew, or dance?"

"I _like_ cooking," I said urgently

"Ettine" My mother warned.

I looked down at my plate again.

Patilinus smiled. "So long as you're happy"

After that I changed. I stopped acting out. I treated my mother and Patilinus with respect and civility, even if I couldn't muster genuine affection. I still spent most of my time in the kitchen with Aelwyn and Faenthil, helping prep and clean, but mostly fighting with Faenthil.

I began to attend lessons like Patilinus and my mother wanted; sewing, dancing, speaking, history, politics... I didn't enjoy them much, but after my lessons were over, I was free to spend time as I wanted.

That was until I turned fourteen. Then the suitors came. Most were about twice my age, overweight, with either no interest in a girl who barely had her first blood, or were uncomfortably keen. All posed under some pretext of having heard stories of my grace. They showered me in compliments and lavish gifts, telling me stories of their own wealth and achievements. While I didn't find myself wholly ugly, I knew the most attractive thing to these men was my family's wealth. I also knew that whoever my mother and step-father chose would have a comfortable living themselves.

My time was now spent meeting men, trying to find one that wasn't completely unbearable. It was a delicate balance. They needed to be in good political standing with the empire, as to not jeopardize my step-father's role on the Elder Council, but they couldn't be in good enough standing to possibly replace him. Wealthy enough to meet my mother's expectations, but not so wealthy that it made her look poor. Handsome enough not to make me vomit, but not so handsome that… well, perhaps _that_ at least wasn't a problem. If only such a man existed among Cyrodiil's elite.

I returned to my room on one night, now sixteen and completely exhausted from a night of mingling, a night of polite smiles and pretending my suitors were smarter than me. I wanted nothing more than to rip of my restrictive dress and climb into bed. I had just finished with the first when I heard a noise.

I acted, more than anything, shouting and flailing, managing to hit the intruder in the face, before he had me in a headlock.

"Faenthil!" I shrieked, trying to struggle out of his grasp. "Faenthil I'm naked!"

He released me, looking me up and down. "Hardly. Is that what you nobles call small clothes? You know they're supposed to be _small_ right?"

I blushed, suddenly aware of my body. Sure, I was still wearing a corset over the crisp white tunic and my petticoat did brush the tops of my ankles, but they still showed more than I wanted him to see. I was slim, 'like a lady should be' but I had definitely inherited some of the more… _nordic_ aspects from my father.

"Just get out" I hissed, walking behind my privacy screen.

"No, cricket. You promised" his voice was mischievous. I felt something land on my head. A pair of soft leather breeches and a well-worn tunic.

"Fae… but I'm _so tired_ "

"What did mum always say about your whining?"

I poked my head out from behind the screen just long enough to glare at my friend, but Aelwyn was still fresh in my mind. Faenthil appeared next to me, his arms around my shoulders, a lopsided grin decorating his angular face.

I pushed him out, slowly pulling on the breeches and tunic, followed by a pair of soft leather boots, trying my waist length hair into a tight bun before following him out the window.

* * *

"I'm no good at this" I moaned as I watched the arrow soar to the side, clear of the tree I was supposed to be aiming for.

Faenthil had set up targets on a quiet hill, just outside the city. It was a nice place, somewhere that we could sneak out to without being caught. Far enough to forget about the house with its politics and responsibilities, but still close enough to be back before even the servants rose.

"Well what are you going to eat when you run away from whatever fat sod you have to marry?" Faenthil said, adjusting my elbow. It was our favorite thing to pretend that I was the type of person to run away from a marriage. Perhaps he took it seriously, but I knew that I couldn't abandon my mother.

"Even if I did manage to shoot something I wouldn't know what to do with it."

"Let's focus on getting something for now."

"I'll never ever _ever_ get better at this" I hissed, pulling the drawstring.

"I think this might help," he said gently, holding out an arrow.

I felt my face flush as I realized what I had done, glancing between his outstretched hand and my fully drawn, but somehow empty bow. "Faenthil you _idiot!_ " I shrieked, flinging the bow aside and running at him.

"You were the one who did it!" he shouted over his shoulder as he fled. I caught him, tackling him to the ground, beating on his chest. We tousled in the soft grass for a while, before falling, breathless on the grass, staring up at the stars, breathing in the warm summer air.


	3. Chapter 3

I rubbed my calf with my foot absent-mindedly, watching a female servant sprinkle flower petals over the bathwater. The floorboards creaked as I was made my way towards the edge of the tub, pausing a moment to stare at my reflection in the milky water. I took a deep, shaky breath before stepping in, drawing my knees to my chest as the servant began to massage sweet-smelling oils into my hair. The aroma mingled with the steam rising from the water and filled the room. I closed my eyes and tried to decide whether I found the smell relaxing, or if it made me more likely to vomit.

I turned with heavy-lidded eyes at the sound of the door opening, half-expecting to see Faenthil. Instead, the light outlined my mother in the doorway. I slouched deeper into the water, not wanting to hear whatever words of warning she had for me tonight. She dismissed the servant with a subtle nod and approached the edge of the tub.

I almost flinched away from her touch, it had been so long since I last felt it. Her fingers worked gently over my scalp and down the length of my hair, deep-black, just like hers. I closed my eyes as a red petal drifted in front of them. The last time she had done this was when my father died, and she had to wash his blood from my hands. I grabbed a coarse stone and scrubbed myself raw to hide the tears welling up in my eyes.

"Aressa," my mother's voice was low and soft.

"Yes, mother?"

"Aressa, I am so proud of you." She said, her voice quivering.

Well, that certainly wasn't what I was expecting. "Mama?" I said, turning around. Was she crying?

"No, Aressa. I know it's been hard for you, ever since…" she took a deep breath, steadying her voice. "I haven't been the greatest mother. I know you don't want to marry, but thank you, for agreeing to do this. It took me much longer to be half as mature as you."

"I know," I said quietly.

"Cyror will make a good husband, once you get to know him. Love isn't built overnight."

I nodded silently, watching the petal drift across the lukewarm water.

My mother helped me dry and dress, sitting me front of the large mirror, letting me fidget with the buttons as she pulled my black hair into an intricate updo. She spread a red paste onto my lips and pinched color into my cheeks. She fussed over my appearance, tugging on the hem of my dress until it fell just the way she wanted.

"Perhaps save the stress for the wedding," I muttered, taking her hand.

She pressed her mouth into a thin line. "You can't blame me, the way these proposals have been going."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and make a sharp comment about the quality of my suitors. But, she was right. It had been almost four years since I had come of age, and I had not been cooperative in the least. My mother and stepfather were amazing patient, all things considered.

"Aressa, there is something else I must tell you," her brow was creased in concern as her eyes met mine in the mirror. She placed her hands on my shoulders. Standing like this, I could see a lot of her on myself. We shared the same thick black hair, delicate and feminine features, thick eyelashes and plump lips. The only real differences were from my father's touch. His wide blue eyes peered out of my face, my build was sturdier. She was all lithe grace, like a cat. I had the square shoulders and wide hips of a Nord.

"Your stepfather," she continued, "with the tension in Skyrim and the resistance from some of the other provinces…"

My mouth twisted into a frown. I knew that the 'tension' in Skyrim had developed into a full-blown war, and the fact that other provinces were resisting Imperial control wasn't news to me either. "Mama, why are you telling me this?"

She took a deep, shaky breath. "It is possible that your father will lose his position in the Elder Council."

She paused a moment to let the words sink in. "I have some money saved, but you know how disgraced politicians are treated. I know this hasn't been easy for you, but…" she sighed, tucking a stray hair into place "Just _try_ to make this work. For your family. For me."

I stared at my reflection in the mirror, not responding. My mother sighed again and gave me a squeeze on the shoulders before leaving the room. I sat like that for minutes, just staring at myself as I tried to make sense of what she had told me. I never thought that my step father's position might be in jeopardy, or that it might lead to the ruin of my family. I wondered how long it had been like this, if that was why they had made the decision to make me eligible so young. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and promised myself that I would at least _try_ to make things work.

* * *

The dining room was a rather intimate space, compared to the rest of the house. The majority of the room was taken up by a wide table, with just enough space for the servants to deliver food and drink. I glanced around, ignoring the ornate floral centerpiece, and the fact that the table had been set with the family's finest dishes and flatware. One of the many knots in my stomach unraveled as my eyes met Faenthil's, dressed in the best servant clothes, pitcher of wine in hand. He gave me a sly smile as I passed.

Cyror and his father were standing at the end of the table, talking to Patilinus. They were both small men, made large by their wealth. Cyror stood a good head below me, although some of my height could be attributed to the good lineage provided by my father. Cyror's family had made their wealth through farming shortly after the Oblivion Crisis, providing food to and rebuilding areas that had been destroyed, for a price, of course. You could tell with less than a glance that they had never gone hungry.

Greetings were made and we took our seats as the first course was brought to the table. I did my best to encourage conversation, nodding enthusiastically as Cyror stated for the fourth time that minute how ' _Lucrative_ the farming business really is', ignoring the fact that he did not seem to know any of the workings of a farm, amount of coin, or even what they were growing and selling. This accompanied by the not-so-subtle touches to my arm and thigh ensured that I barely touched my food.

Drink on the other hand, was more than plenty. Faenthil was doing his part by keeping my glass full of fine red wine, and offering subtle shows of support in the way of a well-timed cough or the clumsy drop of a fork. Between my constant drinking, and the fact that my cup was never fully emptied before it was filled to the brim, I had lost count of my drinks. The flush in my face told me that I had more than enough, but it was the best thing I could do to tolerate the man next to me, _short of perhaps putting a fork in his eye_.

I entertained that thought as Cyror began to tell that same story again. I watched his cheeks, or rather jowls, jiggle as he spoke, flecks of half-chewed turkey flew from his mouth as he laughed at something he had said. A fine layer of sweat formed on his brow. My mother must have been desperate, if she expected me to marry this guy. He was disgusting, and nothing short of an idiot. Sure, his family had money. His father had probably only agreed to this after speaking with my tutors, no way he would allow his son to run the business.

I realized that I was actually toying with my fork when I felt Cyror's hand creeping higher up my thigh. I looked down at it. He had soft, chubby fingers, like a baby, only the size of a full-grown man's. I could see the spots of turkey grease that they had left on my dress.

Cyror cleared his throat loudly as the last of the dishes were cleared from the table. Everyone looked in our direction expectantly, my mother had been less than discreet about the purpose of this evening. He turned towards me, moving close enough that I could feel his hot breath on my skin. He took my hands in both of his, cold and clammy. "Aressa… erm… Aressa Patilinus?" He glanced at his father for confirmation, only turning his attention back to me after receiving a discreet nod. "Aressa, it would be my greatest honor if you would allow me to take you to bed on this night and all nights to come."

It almost didn't register. I almost said yes. "Excuse me?"

"Surely there must be an empty bedroom somewhere in this house," he stated bluntly, as if he wasn't fully aware of what his words meant.

Baffled, I stared at him. It certainly wasn't the question I expected him to ask, or at least the way I expected him to ask it. Had I misheard him? I certainly had had enough to drink for that to be the case. I looked around the room. My mother's mouth was set in a hard, disapproving line. Patilinus's goblet was frozen halfway between the table and his mouth, which hung open in shock. Cyror's father looked like he was about to faint, and Faenthil was struggling to hold in laughter.

I stood up so fast that my chair fell backwards, the sound of the heavy wood falling to the floor was extenuated by the surrounding silence. I grabbed my glass, still half full of wine and splashed it in his face, catching only a confused expression before I turned and fled. There was indeed an empty bedroom in that house, but I only planned to enter it alone.

My mother found me minutes later, her smirk told me she wasn't angry.

"I thought he was supposed to propose," I hissed.

"Well, that was a proposal… of sorts"

I glared at her, and resumed pacing the room.

Patilinus appeared at the door, his hands folded easily behind his back. His shoulders were slumped in a relaxed way, and he wore the same smirk as my mother. "Lord Cyror and his son would like to extend their sincerest apologies and-"

"Absolutely not!" My mother and I said in unison.

"You can dismiss them," my mother added more gently.

"I already have," Patilinus said, smiling warmly at me.

"You do know, that you aren't completely without blame," My mother said as I began to pull down my hair.

"I didn't do anything wrong!"

"No, but the wine was a bit much."

"Nevertheless, you have to get married. Perhaps next year… You'll be nearly eighteen, it might be enough time to find someone who will take you."

"No doubt _Lord Cyror_ will say this is all my fault," I spat.

"Go to bed dear, I'll make sure no one bothers you in the morning."


End file.
